


In Spite of Ourselves

by Eienvine



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:02:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27120838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eienvine/pseuds/Eienvine
Summary: Enola Holmes is not in love, and she is not the marrying type. But Tewky must marry someone, and he wants her, and she wants to protect him from a marriage to a woman who would not appreciate him. So for his sake, not her own, she will marry him.Unfortunately, it never occurs to her to ask whether he is interested in a marriage of such unequal affections.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 349
Kudos: 748





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just had to hop on the bandwagon and add to the list of wonderful fics for this fabulous movie. A bit of angst, a pile of family love, and loads of romance ahead, along with me trying to make sense of Tewky's name (hit me up if you want to hear my lecture about why it makes NO SENSE for him to refer to himself as Viscount Tewkesbury).
> 
> I have five and a half of the six chapters written, and am planning to update every other day. (And please pardon any anachronisms; I write more for the Regency period than the Victorian one. In fact this is probably my first Victorian-era story.)

. . . . . .

_The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved, loved for ourselves, or rather loved in spite of ourselves. - Victor Hugo_

. . . . . .

Lord William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether and Viscount Tewkesbury, proposes marriage to Miss Enola Holmes, private detective, on a warm spring night when he is twenty-two and she a few months shy of the same age.

They are sitting in the parlor at 221B Baker Street, sipping tea and celebrating the successful closing of a case, when he asks the question. Enola is caught entirely off guard, although when she considers this moment later, she’ll realize she shouldn’t have been surprised: if that starry-eyed look on her companion’s face means love, then he has been in love with her as long as he’s known her, for that is how long he’s been giving her that look. (She always suspected that might be what that look meant, but was never certain. Her mother’s eccentric education was extraordinarily thorough in some areas—combat, logic, ciphers—and entirely lacking in others, and Enola still finds herself a touch out of her depth when it comes to matters like personal connections with other people. And Sherlock is certainly no help.)

“Marry you?” she repeats, that incredible brain of hers grinding to a halt, as though someone has shoved a stick into the ever-ticking gears of her mind.

Tewky—an old nickname he tolerates with relatively good cheer—nods, his face a strange mix of hope and resignation. (Another thing that will occur to her later: he knew her answer before she did. But he asked anyway.)

“But—why?”

“Because I love you,” he says simply, and although Enola has never longed to hear those words romantically before, she can’t deny they cause a strange sort of feeling to grow somewhere behind her sternum. “I have loved you since you came back for me on the train, that first day we met.”

She gathers her scattered wits enough to say, “You know I have never meant to marry.”

“I do know. But I would not ask you to change a single thing about your life, other than living with me; I would never expect you to stop working. You could do your investigating with all my resources at your disposal. And imagine what access you would have to any place you elected to go, if you were the Marchioness of Basilwether.”

“And imagine what expectations would be placed upon me,” she retorts. “What scrutiny.” He’s thought this through, clearly, but so has she, the few times marriage has crossed her mind in the last few years.

He shrinks a little at that, and she demands, “Why are you asking this now? Everything's been going swimmingly. Why muddy that up with talk of romance?”

He makes an attempt to tease. “Other than because I love you?”

“Other than that.”

The wan little grin drops from his face. “My uncle has been encouraging me to marry. To ensure the line of succession for the title.”

“What of it?” she demands. “You’re of age; your relatives have no control over you. And you’re a marquess; you outrank him. He can’t force you to do anything.”

“He didn’t force me,” Tewky corrects her. “He convinced me. He convinced me it was time to take finding a wife seriously.”

She blinks.

“I do want to be married,” he confesses, his gaze fixed earnestly on her face. “I’ve always wanted to be married. And not just to ensure an heir. To have the person you love best in the world always at your side: how could I not yearn for such a thing?. And to have children . . . I’ve always wanted children, Enola. Little ones to love and nurture.”

He takes a deep breath and leans forward, just a little. “Doesn’t any of that,” he asks quietly, “sound appealing to you?”

Her mind and her heart are a whirlwind, examining this rather romantic view of marriage, comparing it to the negative view she’s always had of the institution. Tewky makes his case very eloquently. But an eloquent speech isn’t enough to drown out twenty-one years of having no very good opinion of the marriage state. And the silly little infatuation she had with him briefly, when she was sixteen, isn’t enough for her to change her mind either.

She frowns, and his expression falls, and she hates being the cause for the sorrow in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I do care for you. But . . .”

“Not like that,” he finishes. “Not enough to give up your freedom. I know. And I appreciate your honesty. I am sorry to distress you; I think I knew that would be your reply. But . . . I had to ask. I couldn’t live the rest of my life wondering if things might have gone differently if only I’d had the courage to ask.”

He musters up a little smile, so forced and so heartbroken that she hates it more than the grief that was on his face before.

“Why can we not go on as we have been?” she demands. “Why can we not simply be chums?”

“We will always be friends, Enola,” he says, but there is a hesitation in his tone, and the gears of her mind are starting to turn again, working through all the repercussions of what has just been said.

“And your heir?”

“I suppose I still need one.”

“So what will you do?” She’s not certain why this suddenly matters, but it does.

He shrugs. “I will have to . . . look elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere?” she demands.

Suddenly fidgety, Tewky stands and strides to the window, looking at the darkness outside. “Not right away, of course. But . . . someday. When I have learned to forget my feelings for you.” A pained smile crosses his face. “My uncle already has a list of eligible ladies drawn up for me to choose from.” He hesitates. “If . . . you’re certain, Enola. I’m willing to wait, if it’s time you want.”

And Enola is suddenly irrationally angry. He’s been a perfect gentleman about the whole thing, but suddenly she is angry with him and with the world at large for ruining this perfect night, for ruining their perfect friendship. Because his asking her this question has changed their friendship, and his marrying another woman—for he’s right, he must marry eventually—will change their friendship even further. 

“I think you should go.”

Tewky’s shoulders sink even lower, and he nods mutely and gathers his things. At the door, he turns back at her. “I will always be your friend, Enola Holmes.”

She does not know how to respond, so she doesn’t. Eventually he leaves.

She paces the parlor for hours that night; no one notices and chastises her for it, for Mrs. Hudson has been asleep for some time and Sherlock is in Wales on a case. Her brother would scold her for being so overcome with emotion, but this is not a case: this is her life. This is her dearest friend—her assistant when he is in Town, her faithful correspondent when he is not—ruining the most stable and supportive relationship in her life (with no offense meant to her mother and Sherlock, and with every offense meant to Mycroft).

When she finally sleeps, it is fitful, and she wakes in the early morning no more rested than when she laid her head down. Her irritation has abated somewhat, and she forces herself to be rational. It was not reasonable to suppose that things could go on as they have been forever; he does need an heir, for without one, the estate and the title will after Tewky’s death go to an absurd cousin, not fit to manage a flower stall, let alone become an influential voice in the House of Lords.

Besides, apparently Tewky has always wanted children, and who is she to keep him from that? She personally feels ambivalent on the topic of children; while she has no objection to the notion of having them someday, she also has no burning need to become a parent. But Tewky does, apparently.

Truth be told, he would be an excellent father. She imagines he would be the same sort of parent as her own mother: deeply involved in his children’s lives, not content to turn the raising of his offspring over to a series of nannies and governesses.

She can picture him now: walking through the gardens at Basilwether House, holding in his arms a little child with his dark hair and eyes. Perhaps he leads another by the hand, and takes them from plant to plant, encouraging them to smell and touch, teaching them their Latin names, joining in their delighted laughter when a butterfly is startled by their approach and wings its way gracefully past them.

It suits him, to be honest.

It’s a pleasant little tableau, so she lets the scene play out in her mind. She imagines them picking a bouquet of flowers to bring into the house. She imagines the children chasing each other in the grass while Tewky watches fondly. And then she imagines their mother coming to join them.

She can’t see this mystery woman’s face nearly as well as she can the children’s. She’d be dressed in the height of fashion, of course, and breathtakingly beautiful, with a perfect figure, as a marchioness should be. But her face is a blur in Enola’s imagination.

She wonders if this mystery woman would be happy, like Tewky, to buck tradition and take an active hand in the raising of their children, not leaving it to servants. She wonders what this woman would make of the nontraditional marquess, who is as soft and sweet and beautiful as the flowers he loves, who uses his exalted position to campaign for the rights of those beneath him, who goes happily with Enola to feminist rallies, who laughs cheerfully when she beats him when they spar above Edith’s shop, who reminds her and Sherlock not to become so caught up in their mysteries that they forget to have sympathy for the victim, who is not brilliant like the Holmes family but who is the best man she knows. Would this mystery woman appreciate the treasure that is William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether? Or would she be forever trying to change him into the sort of man one expects a marquess to be?

In her mind, Enola sees this faceless woman give an unconvincing smile at the messy bouquet of flowers—clods of dirt still clinging to the exposed roots—thrust at her by grubby hands, before shooing the children off to their nanny. She sees the woman lecturing Tewky on who will be attending tonight’s dinner and who they absolutely must impress. 

She sees the light in his eyes dim, just a little. And it makes her heart hurt.

And in a sudden, blinding flash of realization, Enola Holmes knows that if anyone is to marry William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether—if anyone is to raise a family with him—it must be her. She cannot leave him at the mercy of society ladies who will never understand and appreciate him for what he is. She must marry him herself.

Is this love? she wonders as she hurriedly garbs herself in a green day dress Tewky has told her he is particularly fond of. She rather suspects not. He is the best man Enola knows, and he is certainly no chore to look at, but she has never had any use for romantic love; that’s simply not part of her makeup. Oh, she’s had her brief infatuations from time to time—Tewky himself was the subject of one when they were younger—but that tendency toward romantic feelings has faded as she has seen, time after time in her investigations, how often people are hurt by the ones they love. She has seen how her own mother felt held back and stifled by her marriage. And she has come to the conclusion that she has no use for it.

But she does like Tewky better than she likes anyone, and she made a decision, six years ago, to protect him. (She never imagined protecting him would require such a drastic move, but she’s Enola Holmes: she thrives on drastic moves.) And little though she thinks of the institution of marriage, she knows that Tewky is the only man on earth she _could_ marry, if she were to marry.

And she thinks that’s enough.

Twenty minutes later, she is knocking on the door of the Linfields’ London home; it’s appallingly early, but the household is accustomed to her coming and going at all hours. “Is Lord Basilwether awake yet?” she demands of the butler, who is impressively well put-together for this early hour.

She is shown into the parlor, and a few minutes later, Tewky appears. He looks exhausted, his face haggard, his eyes bloodshot and puffy. He did not sleep well, she deduces, and may have spent part of the night crying. That’s Lord Basilwether for you, she thinks with a private little smile.

“Enola,” he says. His voice and his posture are a little stiff, and she can’t blame him; he’s no doubt baffled as to why she’s here at this dreadfully early hour when only eight hours ago she was refusing to marry him.

No sense dragging out his suffering any longer. “Yes.”

He blinks. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she repeats, as a timid sort of hope touches his face. “If your offer from last night still stands. That’s my answer.”

The expression of heartfelt delight that is dawning in his eyes becomes him rather well. “You mean . . . you’ve changed your mind? You’ll marry me?”

“If you assure me,” she says, “that I may keep up my work, just as I have been doing.”

“I swear it,” he says, his voice low and rough, and something about it makes her heartbeat increase. “But—truly, Enola? I am not dreaming this?”

“You are not,” she says reasonably, “for I am certainly real, and therefore cannot be a part of your dream.”

A grin starts to spread across his face. “Enola,” he says in tones of barely suppressed joy, “may I kiss you?”

Oh yes, physical affection. She hadn’t quite thought through that, but that’s part and parcel of being engaged, so it must be borne. “I suppose,” she says, and he laughs as though she were jesting and crosses the room in two giant strides to take her face in his hands and press his lips to hers.

It’s quite a curious experience. Why should pressing one’s lips to another’s be such a highly regarded expression of affection? She doesn’t dislike it, precisely, but it does feel terribly strange. But she will confess that she likes the feeling of Tewky’s hands cradling her face; she has always admired his hands.

“May we tell my mother?” he murmurs against her lips. “May we tell everyone we know?”

There would be little point in getting engaged if it never became public knowledge. “We may.”

He leans in to kiss her again, this time wrapping her in his arms, and she finds she rather likes that: Tewky’s arms around her, warm and comforting. If marriage means he can hold her like this whenever they choose, that’s certainly a point in its favor.

“Thank you, Enola Holmes. I will do everything in my power to ensure you are the happiest woman in England.”

“Remember that promise when your uncle is scolding me for using the wrong fork at dinner,” she smirks, and he grins and grabs her hand.

“Let us tell my mother right away. She’ll want to start planning the wedding immediately.”

Good heavens, wedding planning. She hadn’t even thought about that: dress fittings and wedding breakfasts and guest lists . . .

He pulls her from the room and Enola follows, wondering what she’s gotten herself into, and wondering if protecting Tewky from unworthy brides is going to be worth all the fuss.

. . . . . .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! Thank you so much for the wonderful reception of chapter one! I hope chapter two lives up to expectations. :)
> 
> I've made a very small change to chapter one, by the way; I'd said the proposal occurred not long after Enola's birthday, but a rewatch of the movie informed me that her birthday is in July, and I need the story to be earlier in the year so the London social season is still going on a few chapters from now (at this point in history, the season still largely coincided with when Parliament was in session, which in 1890 was late January to mid-August). So I've moved the story back a few months.
> 
> Also, I know that Lady T is referred to as the Marchioness of Basilwether at one point in the movie, but her official name in the credits is Lady Tewkesbury, and the only explanation I can personally come up with for that is that her husband died before becoming the marquess. So that's what I've gone with here.

. . . . . .

Enola had half-expected Lady Tewkesbury to show some resistance to the engagement. The lady is fond of Enola; she’s made that clear over the years, inviting her often to visit their homes and join the family for outings, and recommending her to society ladies who need a discreet investigator, and turning a blind eye to some of Enola’s eccentricities. But the fact remains that Enola _is_ eccentric, and in nearly every way she is not a suitable bride for a marquess.

So she confesses herself a little surprised when they burst into Lady Tewkesbury’s private sitting room, Tewky bubbling over with the news, and the lady responds with a genuine smile. “How wonderful, my children!” she exclaims, and rises from her chair to embrace them both. “Enola, how very glad we will be to welcome you to the family.”

Some of Enola’s skepticism must show on her face, for after a discussion of wedding dates and preparations, Lady Tewkesbury glances at Enola, then asks her son if she might have some time alone with her future daughter-in-law. “For we have much to discuss if she is to become a member of our household, and besides, I think you should go write to your uncle immediately with the news.”

Tewky agrees and takes his leave with a kiss on the cheek for his mother and a rather more enthusiastic kiss for Enola. Apparently she is going to be receiving many kisses from him.

“Now, my dear,” says Lady Tewkesbury when they are alone, “you looked rather surprised just now. Did you think I would disapprove?”

“To be honest, I did, a little. I know I am not what most people have in mind when they imagine the proper bride for a marquess.”

“Nonsense,” is Lady Tewkesbury’s affectionate reply. “Your father was a gentleman, and your brothers are too, even if they both elect to work for a living. Of course, your profession will raise a few eyebrows, if you should choose to tell people of it. But I know that Mrs. Woodcroft and Lady Rosalind will agree to help me pave your way in society; they are both so very grateful for the help you gave them.”

Enola blinks in surprise, then blurts out, “As easy as that? What about the reputation of the Linfield family? What about the dignity of Basilwether House and the Basilwether title?”

Lady Tewkesbury sighs. “I understand why you would think that,” she says. “Before we met, that would have been my foremost concern.” A tight, unhappy smile crosses her face. “And then I learned that my mother-in-law had shot her own grandson, that she had ordered the death of my husband, all for the dignity of the Basilwether title. And I realized that no tradition or title or estate is worth that. I determined then and there that I would put the well-being of my son over the well-being of the family legacy. And I have seen, these past six years, that what makes him happiest in all the world is you.”

“Do I make him so happy?” Enola asks, and can’t deny feeling a surge of pride that apparently she affects her intended so.

Her future mother-in-law laughs delicately, like the ringing of a bell. Enola has always laughed too loudly and too unguardedly. “I suppose I can tell you this, now that you two have come to an understanding about your feelings for each other. My boy lights up like the sun when there is a letter from you in the post. And whenever we come to London after having been away, he cannot be easy until he has seen you.”

It seems a great responsibility, to hold another person’s happiness so entirely in your hands, and for a moment Enola is overwhelmed. No one has taught her how to be a good wife, a good fiancée, a good beloved. But then she remembers that Tewky has loved her for years, just as she is, without her making any attempt to change her behavior. So she smiles at Lady Tewkesbury.

“And you know I am very fond of you as well,” continues the lady. “I know how many times you have saved my son’s life, occasionally at great cost to yourself. I know he shall be in good hands as your husband. And I know that you two shall be very happy together.”

Happiness. To be honest, Enola hasn’t thought much of that—just of the satisfaction of having fulfilled her promise to herself to protect Tewky. But for the first time, she imagines her life with him. She imagines them working quietly together of an evening, him reading some proposed bill and her pondering some case, and the convenience of being able to discuss these things with each other without sending a note around requesting a visit. She imagines the pleasure of always having a companion when there is a ball or dinner that must be attended. She imagines standing in the gardens of Basilwether House and watching Tewky teach their children the Latin names of the flowers and the trees and the shrubs.

And she finds herself smiling at Lady Tewkesbury. “I believe that we shall be very happy too.”

“And I will teach you everything I can about being the marchioness; I know you were not born to the nobility,” Lady Tewkesbury goes on. “Of course I never was the marchioness; my poor George predeceased his father, you know. But I know what must be done.” She smiles. “I know my boy has promised you that you shall not have to give up your work, and I would not dream of doing so either. But I imagine you will still find yourself forced to play the role on occasion. I will teach you all I know about hostessing, making social calls, doing charity work, planning events, navigating the nobility . . .”

And Enola forces her sudden alarm down and reminds herself that this is the right choice.

. . . . . .

Mycroft’s reaction to the news is just what Enola would have expected: satisfaction at his unsatisfactory sister having made such an advantageous match.

And then a sly little smile touches his face. “And it’s always useful to have such a close connection to a marquess. To have his ear, as it were.”

“I’m half-tempted to call off the engagement,” Enola grumbles to Sherlock in the carriage back to Baker Street, “just to thwart his scheming. But perhaps it’s best to stay close to Tewky, so I can make sure Mycroft doesn’t get his claws in him.”

Sherlock snorts. “I think you underestimate your Lord Basilwether,” he says. “He seems soft, but he’s not the sort to let others push him around. Yourself excluded, of course.”

Sherlock has been surprisingly supportive of her engagement; she had rather expected him to consider it an obstacle to her detective work, but his reaction was quite the opposite: “That title will open many doors for you, and you may find it useful to have his resources at your disposal. Besides, a married woman is allowed certain liberties that would attract unwanted attention and scrutiny in an unchaperoned single woman.”

“Truly?” Enola had said, surprised. “You think so? I had thought you would disapprove.”

“I have no interest in the marriage state myself, but I am sensible enough to realize that not everyone is the same. And if you decide to marry someone, surely Basilwether is the man most likely to allow you to continue your work.” He had smiled then. “Who knows, perhaps I shall be coming to you in the future for access to the highest circles of London society.”

“You're simply glad to get me out of your flat,” she’d teased, but she’d been pleased at his supportive response.

. . . . . .

Two days after becoming engaged, Enola leaves a message with Edith Grayston that she wishes to speak with Eudoria Holmes. She feels a little disloyal to have waited so long to reach out to her mother, but the truth is that she’s fairly certain that she knows what response she will receive, and she dreads knowing that she has disappointed her beloved mother. In fact the only reason she reaches out as soon as she does is that Lady Tewkesbury wants to place an announcement in the society pages, and Enola doesn’t want her mother to find out from a newspaper.

Four days after becoming engaged, Enola meets her mother in Edith’s tea shop, and Eudoria’s response is precisely what Enola had expected it to be.

“You’re to be married?” she repeats with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Why? After working so hard to build up your reputation and your client list? You would throw all that away over an infatuation?”

After that response, Enola suddenly can’t countenance admitting to her mother that she is not marrying for love, for surely that is an even worse reason to “throw all that away.” So instead she counters, “You know Tewky would never dream of forcing me to give up my work.”

Eudoria waves a dismissive hand. “He’s a man.”

“A man who has gone to many of your feminist rallies,” Enola reminds her firmly. “You have seen him there. You’ve seen how he votes in Lords. You know he is not the sort of man to be tied down by antiquated traditions.”

But her mother is not convinced. “He’s a man,” she repeats. “Anyway, your father was much like Basilwether, and never meant to stifle me, but the very institution of marriage was stifling. There was so much I could not do because of my marriage.” She shakes her head. “Really, Enola, I thought you would do so much more with your life.”

The words hurt, but the tone makes it worse, because Enola can tell her mother genuinely believes she is looking out for Enola’s well-being. After a little more stilted conversation, Enola leaves the shop feeling embarrassed and wrong-footed and a little defiant, like a child unfairly accused of something she has not done.

Almost without thinking, she catches a hackney cab to the Linfields’ London house, though she doesn’t quite know what she will do when she gets there. The upright butler shows her into the marquess’s private study, then leaves quietly (even engaged, they really ought to have a chaperone with them, but the family and staff have grown accustomed to giving their unconventional master and his unconventional fiancée a certain amount of leeway).

Tewky rises from his chair. “What’s wrong?” he asks. His tone and expression are warm and loving and concerned, and suddenly Enola knows precisely why she came here: to cross his study in a few quick strides and wrap her arms around Tewky and bury her face against his chest.

His arms come up immediately around her, of course, and Enola stands there in the circle of his embrace and basks in the feeling of being held so tenderly by someone who loves her.

Tewky really is the sweetest young man in all of England, and Enola feels her resolve, loosened by her meeting with her mother, firm up again. She thinks, as she occasionally does, of the sheep on the cliff: her mother would not have saved the sheep, but Enola would, and she always will. She is not her mother, and that’s all right: she doesn’t have to be shaped by the dictates of society, but she also doesn’t have to be the same sort of rebel as her mother. She can be a society-defying private detective and feminist and martial artist, but it doesn’t follow that she can’t also marry and raise a family.

Especially when her intended is rubbing her back and murmuring soothing things into her hair without even knowing what is amiss. He really is absurdly sweet, and Enola, suddenly keen to show him that she appreciates him, leans back to press a kiss to his cheek.

His face flares red but he looks as pleased as Punch, and little wonder; in the four days of their engagement, she has never yet initiated any romantic contact. Well, if they are to be married, she ought to learn to be more forthcoming in these little displays of affection, and anyway it is no chore to be so close to him. So she nestles back into his embrace, and feels his arms tighten around her, and smiles.

. . . . . .

_Mr. Mycroft Homes announces the engagement of his sister, Miss Enola Holmes, to Lord William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether . . ._

It feels strange to see the announcement in print, as though now the engagement is final and cannot be taken back. It feels equally strange to have Mycroft be such an integral part of the announcement, but after some discussion, Lady Tewkesbury and Enola decide it is best: drawing attention to Enola’s connection to Eudoria Holmes, known radical and agitator, would do her no favors, and besides, Eudoria is dead-set against the match. Sherlock would be the next logical choice, for he is Enola’s legal guardian, but including his name in the announcement would attract attention of a sort Enola does not want. And Mycroft is more than happy to oblige, considering it his duty as the paterfamilias and still vastly pleased at Enola’s catching herself a marquess.

London society is not entirely stupid, however, and the connection to Sherlock is quickly made, and in the days following the newspaper announcement, 221B Baker Street is flooded with invitations from those who hope to make the better acquaintance of the future Marchioness of Basilwether. Lady Tewkesbury is invaluable here, for she shuffles through this correspondence with the ease and accuracy of the most experienced card player, dividing it into three piles: what can be ignored, what must be declined with a note, and what Enola must accept. Fortunately that last pile is tiny, with Lady Tewkesbury promising Enola she needn’t begin attending society events for a few weeks yet, until after the engagement ball.

In the meantime, a great deal of planning is going on. Lady Tewkesbury again proves herself invaluable in coordinating these details, for which Enola is eternally grateful, as she herself has neither the time, the talent, or the inclination to take up these details herself.

“Were it up to me,” she grumbles to Tewky one afternoon as their hackney cab rumbles its way across London, “I would simply put on my best dress one morning and walk to the church, and that would be the extent of the merriment.”

Tewky grins at her. “That does sound far easier than all the planning going on at home,” he agrees in his best working class accent.

“At ‘ome,” she corrects him. “Your accent is coming along nicely, but you occasionally slip on the H’s.”

“My apologies, miss,” he says with a deferential little touch to his cap.

“Very good,” she says, casting an eye over him and fighting down at amusement at seeing the Marquess of Basilwether looking so unkempt. The cap hides his hair, and the dark smudges on his face conceal his identity further. The worn and ragged clothes of a stable lad complete the look. She herself is in the rattiest of dresses and smeared with clay, consistent with her cover of working in a brickyard. (She is hoping no one will notice them alight from the cab and wonder how two impoverished workers afforded such a conveyance.) “I would scarcely notice you on the streets of London.”

“Imagine if my grandmother could see me now,” he laughs, returning to his usual accent.

“She would shoot us both for daring to sully the family name,” agrees Enola, glad that Tewky has recovered enough from the shocking incident to laugh about it now. “Well, I’m glad to have solved the mystery, but I am very sorry to have to go to Mrs. Price with such news! Imagine searching so faithfully for a missing husband, convinced some dreadful thing has befallen him, only to learn that he has deliberately abandoned you!”

The smile flees from Tewky’s face. “That poor woman,” he agrees, and is lost in thought for a few blocks. Eventually, though, his smile returns, enough for him to say teasingly to Enola, “Are you not glad to know that your husband will never abandon you?”

She is immensely glad of that fact, in truth, for there is some small part of her that has never quite recovered from being so summarily abandoned by her own mother, and that exults in knowing that Tewky is steady and loyal and incapable of deliberately hurting another person. But it is not in her nature to admit as much, so she teases in return, “Yes, I don’t believe you would dare risk my wrath. Or my mother’s. Or either of my brothers’.”

(What she doesn’t know is that the day is not long coming when she will wish she’d taken the opportunity to assure him that she sees his loyal, caring nature and is pleased to know that she can rely on his faithfulness and devotion. But by that time, it will be too late for such assurances.)

. . . . . .


	3. Chapter 3

. . . . . .

There is still a great deal of planning to be done, but Tewky and his mother are vastly happy to take care of most of it and Enola is vastly happy to let them. There is one thing she cannot avoid, though.

“You cannot dance?” Lady Tewkesbury repeats, her eyes wide and round, and it amuses Enola that after six years of her getting into the most frightful and improper scrapes, this is what shocks the lady most.

“My mother never taught me, for she did not care for it herself,” Enola explains.

“Well, that will never do!” exclaims her future mother-in-law. “You must be able to dance with William at your engagement ball!” So she takes it upon herself to play the part of the dancing master.

Tewky is pressed into service as a partner, a task he undertakes most willingly. They roll up the rug in the music room at the Linfields’ London house, and practice the steps slowly, and then Lady Tewkesbury plays the piano while Tewky and Enola dance.

To her surprise, Enola takes to the activity immediately. She is quite fond of music—several years of living with Sherlock and listening to him play the violin was destined to force her either to love or hate music, and fortunately it was the former—and she has a good ear for the rhythm and a good memory for the footwork, given her lifelong training in jiu-jitsu.

Unfortunately, with the engagement ball rapidly approaching, and much of her time taken up with her investigations, there is simply not enough time to get her up-to-date on all the dances. So they leave energetic and somewhat complicated mazurka and polka and galop for later, and focus instead on the quadrille—old-fashioned, Lady Tewkesbury concedes, but still seen in many a London ballroom, and easy to learn—and the waltz.

Enola enjoys the quadrille, but she loves the waltz, especially the quick Viennese waltz: flying about the room as though they have wings on their feet, feeling as though Tewky’s hand on her back is the only thing keeping her from spinning off into space. Tewky is an excellent dancer, confident and light on his feet, and in the practice sessions that follow, she never dances with him without feeling a sort of giddy exhilaration that leaves her heart racing.

“What do you think?” she asks breathlessly after their last practice session. “Will I embarrass you at tomorrow’s ball?”

Tewky glances in the direction of the piano, but his mother has busied herself with a pile of music, giving them a brief moment of privacy. So he leans in and kisses her, barely more than a brush of lips (in deference to their audience), and for a moment she feels like she’s dancing again.

“I could never be ashamed of you, Enola Holmes.”

. . . . . .

The engagement ball is held at the Linfield home, and the servants have absolutely outdone themselves; Enola barely recognizes the ballroom when she enters, so beautifully has it been decorated. A small orchestra is warming up in one corner, and chairs and tables and food are currently being set up by an army of servants, and there is a part of Enola that is overwhelmed at the amount of effort that the Linfields have gone through. Of course it’s not just for her—in fact it’s mostly for Tewky, really—but still, she feels overwhelmed.

She turns at the sound of her name being called. “Mother said you’d finished dressing and—”

It’s Tewky, looking exceptionally handsome in his carefully pressed evening wear with his hair done just so, and the admiration she can’t hide in her eyes is mirrored in his face and increased tenfold. “Enola,” he breathes out, his eyes wide. “You look stunning.”

“Do I?” she asks, and fights the urge to touch her hair and ruin poor Blanchet’s hours of work. She has dressed like a proper lady for cases on many occasions, but this is the first time she’s dressed this way as part of her real life, and she had hardly recognized the woman staring back at her in the mirror: new dress in the latest Parisian style, hair artfully curled and styled, face delicately powdered and rouged (Blanchet, Lady Tewkesbury’s lady’s maid, is an expert in applying cosmetics with a delicate hand, enhancing the complexion without making the lady look improper or fast). The woman looking back at her in the mirror was not the Enola Holmes she was accustomed to, but Enola Linfield, Marchioness of Basilwether.

Part of her was pleased at how elegant she looked, and part of her was terrified.

Echoes of that sudden fear still course through her, but admitting to weakness is not one of her strengths. So she covers it by confessing, “I don’t believe I own a single other item that costs as much as this ball gown.”

“It is worth it,” Tewky assures her, still starry-eyed, and she fights the urge to turn away. The neckline of the gown is not terribly low, but it is quite wide, and the sleeves are so insubstantial as to barely qualify as sleeves, in her opinion. Even with gloves that come up past her elbow, Enola feels terribly exposed . . . but maybe it’s just the way Tewky is looking at her that makes her so very aware of her appearance. But before she can make a joke to ease the mood, Tewky seems to read her mind, as he so often does, and makes a joke of his own: “The real problem with a gown like that, it seems to me, is one of storage: where would you hide a weapon?”

“Strapped to my leg, of course,” she laughs, and the fraught moment is over.

Tewky laughs too—and then he pauses. “Do you have a weapon strapped to your leg at this moment?”

Enola gives a disappointed sigh. “Your mother made me leave it upstairs.”

“Pity,” Tewky laughs. “If ever there was a blushing bride likely to need to be armed at her own engagement ball, surely it would be Enola Holmes.”

She shakes her head with exaggerated disappointment. “I tried to explain that to your mother, but she was not convinced.”

“Well,” says he magnanimously, “when we are wed, I shall never attempt to keep you from sneaking weapons into society events.”

Enola inclines her head graciously. “His Lordship is too kind.”

. . . . . .

It's a much better evening than Enola had expected, at least until everything goes wrong at the end. She has been considering the event simply a hurdle she has to get over, to keep her promise to herself to protect Tewky; the knowledge that, as a marchioness, she will be expected to attend and even host more such evenings is something that she grimly tolerates, rather than contemplates with pleasure.

But the evening is actually delightful. The monotony of standing in the foyer and greeting the arriving guests is broken up by the arrival of several familiar faces—her brothers, as well as her former clients Mrs. Woodcroft and Lady Rosalind—and even those who are absolute strangers to her are, for the most part, very pleasant. (There are a few young ladies and their mamas who seem a little put out on making her acquaintance, and it does not take a detective to deduce that these young ladies had hoped to catch the marquess for themselves.)

Where she had expected to see disapproval, instead she sees curiosity about this relative unknown who has caught the eye of one of the most eligible bachelors in England, and about whether she is indeed related to _that_ Holmes family. The presence of Sherlock at the ball seems to answer that question, and Enola, keeping an eye on her brother, sees he is an object fascination for nearly everyone in the room. She can tell from his face that he is a little annoyed at the scrutiny, and she reminds herself to thank him (and Mycroft) again for coming; it would have looked rather strange if she’d had no family in attendance. As it is, she fields multiple questions about her absent parents; fortunately Lady Tewkesbury foresaw this, and coached Enola on her answer.

“My older brother has been my guardian, and my closest family, for some time,” she recites time and again, and lets people assume what they will.

But when she isn’t being asked difficult questions, it is truly a lovely evening. She dances the first and last dances with Tewky—which is even more wonderful in a ballroom than in the music room—and several other dances with men who want to meet the future marchioness (this is somewhat less wonderful). Whenever the orchestra is to play a dance Enola does not know, Lady Tewkesbury pulls her away from the dance floor, claiming there are people she absolutely must meet.

She meets what feels like hundreds of people; it takes a great deal of the acting skills she has honed in her years as a private detective, but she manages to charm most of them. They, in turn, are mostly charming and kind. She has a chance to speak again with Lady Rosalind and Mrs. Woodcroft, both of whom are vastly happy to help pave her way in society, just as Lady Tewkesbury said they would be. Mrs. Woodcroft even introduces her to a young lady who is in need of the sort of help only Enola can provide, and they set up an appointment to meet in a few days.

She ends the night as she began it, waltzing in Tewky’s arms. So, as previously stated: delightful.

It is absurdly late when finally people begin to file out. Exhausted and footsore, Enola stands with Tewky, her arm through his, and bids the guests farewell.

When the door closes behind the last guest, Tewky turns to her with a grin. “You were extraordinary tonight, Enola. You have no idea how many people complimented me on how charming you were, and how beautiful, and how clever and well-spoken. I am not marrying you so you can make me look better, but if I were, you would have proved that you are worth your weight in gold.”

“I am a rather useful sort of person to have around,” Enola agrees heartily, stifling a yawn.

“Very useful,” says Tewky, and cups his hand gently around the side of her neck, his thumb brushing her earlobe. It’s not the first time he’s touched her this way, but it’s the first time he’s done so when she’s wearing a dress with such a very wide neckline, and she’s never been so aware of the feeling of his hand against her skin, even through his glove. Instinctively she looks around for Lady Tewkesbury, but the woman has left the foyer, probably to see to the post-ball arrangements. “Useful—” he gives her a quick kiss— “and charming—” kiss— “and beautiful—” kiss— “and clever—” kiss— “and well-spoken.” Kiss. “And that is why I love you.” A longer kiss, one that sends a delighted shiver all through her. “Well, that is a fraction of why I love you.”

Enola has grown accustomed to kissing Tewky; indeed, she admits she has come to rather like it. But this not the place or time. “This house is crawling with extra staff today,” she reminds him firmly, “and your mother could walk in at any moment.”

Tewky laughs and steps back to a very respectful distance. “My apologies, Miss Holmes. I just . . .” His eyes grow starry. “I cannot wait until I can marry you.”

“Well, you will have to learn patience,” says Enola practically.

But Tewky is not done being romantic and fanciful. “You know,” he says, “I just paid you some very pretty compliments. Perhaps you ought to pay me some now.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes, but she’s tempted. “Don’t be silly.”

“I mean it! I had a long day. I could do with my fiancée saying lovely things about me.”

“You are being ridiculous, Marquess of Bothersomeshire.”

“That doesn’t count as a compliment.”

Now she does roll her eyes, and he laughs, but after a moment he goes on, his voice a little more earnest. “I do mean it, you know. I just told you some of the reasons I love you; it would be nice to hear some of the reasons you love me.” He hesitates, and for a brief moment, he looks rather vulnerable. “You know, it occurred to me the other day that you’ve never said it to me—that you love me, I mean—although I say it to you all the time. I’d . . . I’d like to hear you say it, Enola. If you don’t mind.”

Enola blinks. She doesn’t want say a thing that would be a lie—she has no problem lying when needed, but not to him—but he seems to badly want to hear something that isn’t true.

That vulnerable look touches his face again, and when he speaks, his voice is wavering. “You do love me, don’t you?”

Well, this is a conundrum. She doesn’t remember giving him cause to think she feels that way, but apparently he has convinced himself it’s true.

She sees him swallow, sees fear and heartbreak flood his face. “Enola?”

“You know I care very much for you, Tewky. You are my dearest friend in all the world.”

He takes a step back, staring at her. “That is not what I was hoping to hear.”

“I’m not certain what to say,” she confesses. “I never gave you reason to think I returned your love.”

“Never gave me reason?” he bursts out, loudly enough that she worries the servants will overhear and come running. “You agreed to marry me.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “After informing you that I did not care for you the way you care for me.”

“Yes, but— I assumed— When you came to me that morning, I assumed you had . . . done some introspection, and come to realize you did love me after all. Why on earth did you accept my proposal, if you do not love me? You are hardly the type to marry for position or wealth.”

He is not shouting—Tewky is not the sort to shout much, no matter how upset he is—but it is as much as she has heard him raise his voice in a very long time. It makes her feel like she is being scolded, which is something she has never been able to endure well, and she is embarrassed that her irregular education has let her down again and led her to completely misunderstand this situation. And all of this makes her voice sharp. “For you! Knowing you had to marry . . . I could not imagine any young lady could truly understand you and make you happy like I could. So I supposed I would have to be the one to marry you. I decided, six years ago, when I went to find you again in Covent Garden, that I would protect you. And I am.”

Hurt flies into his face. “So I am simply a duty to you? You would marry me to complete a task you set yourself? Am I nothing to you but your first client, still requiring you to save me?”

She’s not sure how things went so wrong, and she hates it, and it embarrasses her not to understand. “Of course not! You are also my friend. And I thought you would be pleased! You’re getting what you want, aren’t you? ‘A help and comfort in the hard times, and a friend and companion in the good ones,’ isn’t that what you wanted? What more could you ask for?”

Tewky stares at her, eyes wide, chest rising and falling rapidly, as though he has just run a great race. Before he can respond, the front door opens to admit a footman. “Miss Holmes’ carriage is ready, milord.”

After a long, fraught moment, Tewky nods. “We’d best get you home, Enola,” he says jerkily, and gestures for her to precede him to the door, not meeting her eyes.

The dress she came here in is still upstairs; she’d meant to change before going home and leave this gorgeous ball gown here (to wait for her until she moved into the home as its mistress), but suddenly she wants nothing more than to leave as soon as possible. So she lifts her head high and makes her way outside.

Tewky hands her into the carriage, looking anywhere but at her. But when she is settled on the bench, he glances at her, and then again, and finally brings himself to speak. And it’s only when the carriage is rolling away that she realizes he was answering her earlier question.

“Your heart, Enola.”

. . . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> . . . sorry. (But not very sorry. 😃)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS JUST IN: I have been spelling Basilwether wrong all along. Which is too bad; I liked it the way I was spelling it better. Anyway I’ve changed it now.
> 
> Also, after rewatching part of the movie, I have come to agree with the reviewers who have suggested to me that the screenwriters may have intended “Tewkesbury” as the family’s last name, as well as the viscountcy title. Now, that doesn’t fix things; everyone is still addressing the family completely wrong. (Nobility should be called “Lord [Your Title],” not “Lord [Your Last Name], so our boy should be “Lord Basilwether” and his mother “Lady Basilwether”, because it's the most important title; marquess is a higher rank than viscount so that’s the title they would use.) Still, it’s a piece in solving the puzzle of what Tewky’s name actually is.
> 
> However, I like Linfield. So I’m keeping it.

. . . . . .

The next day Enola wakes up miserable and heartsore, but she cannot remember why until her eyes fall on her beautiful ball gown, draped over the back of her chair. Then the previous evening comes rushing back to her, and she burrows down in her bedclothes and wonders if she can stay there forever.

She’s already got a good start on forever—it’s after noon when she wakes, and little surprise, for she was up terribly late last night—but her effort to fall back to sleep and block out the outside world is ruined when her stomach growls loudly.

With a sigh, she throws on a dressing gown and trudges down to the kitchen, grateful that Sherlock doesn’t appear to be home. And that’s where she is, glumly eating bread and marmalade, when Mrs. Hudson comes up with a note that’s been delivered for her.

 _My dearest Enola,_ it reads in Lady Tewkesbury’s flowing hand, _I am so sorry I did not get a chance to speak to you before you left last night! You must join me for tea today so we can celebrate last night’s triumph._

Well, that tells Enola one thing: Tewky has not yet informed his mother that he has no intention of marrying Enola Holmes—who apparently has been unintentionally deceiving him about her feelings for weeks—as she’d thought he might.

Part of her is tempted, again, to go back to sleep until she has put some distance between herself and last night’s disaster. But she is Enola Holmes, private detective, and she was not raised to cower in fear or stew in hurt feelings. And also, she knows she must see Tewky some time, and there is no sense putting off the inevitable. And also, as much as she is suddenly terrified that Tewky means to call off the engagement, it has always been her personal opinion that delaying bad news only makes it worse.

So she pens a reply to Lady Tewkesbury, accepting her invitation.

. . . . . .

The Linfield’s London home has long been a place of comfort and happiness for Enola, so it is strange to step into the foyer and feel her entire body grow tense. As the butler shows her to the front parlor, all her attention is taken up in keeping every sense on high alert, watching for Tewky.

But he doesn’t make an appearance until halfway through the visit; Lady Tewkesbury explains away his absence by informing Enola that there is a bill that Lord Basilwether is helping to sponsor that requires a great deal of effort, and that he has been putting it off because of all the wedding planning, but now that the engagement ball is over, he truly must put his head down and get to work. It sounds like an excuse not to see Enola, as far as Enola is concerned, but Lady Tewkesbury is so entirely at ease that it’s clear she suspects nothing; the lady is a terrible liar, Enola has learned over the years, and could not possibly be so easy if she knew her son’s engagement was in peril.

They speak of the ball for some time, Enola calling all her acting skills to bear to prevent Lady Tewkesbury from seeing her unease or suspecting anything is amiss. After she’s been there perhaps a half-hour, a messenger arrives with a note, which the butler takes up to Tewky’s study. Ten minutes later, Tewky comes hurrying down the stairs, dressed to go out.

“Where are you going in such a hurry?” his mother calls out as he strides to the front door. “Take a moment and come say goodbye to your intended, at least.”

In his body language, Enola can read the reluctance with which he comes to the door of the parlor, and she is sick at heart to know he’d fully intended to leave without saying a word to her. “Hullo, Mother,” he says, and then he glances at Enola’s chin, clearly unable or unwilling to make eye contact with her. “Enola.” Then it’s back to look at his mother. “I’ve had a note from Davenport, begging me to meet him at our club; something to do with the bill, it seems. I thought I had best hurry; you know what a lather he can work himself into when he’s worried. I’m sorry to rush off like this.” Before either woman can speak, he bids them a polite goodbye. In the moment before he leaves, his eyes meet Enola’s briefly, and the pain she sees there stuns her. And then he is gone.

Still Lady Tewkesbury suspects nothing. And it’s all Enola can do to keep her composure.

. . . . . .

Clearly something must be done. She must corner Tewky long enough to find out what is on his mind, and how he wants to move forward. She must tell him that she did not mean to deceive him, and that if he wants to end their engagement she will understand, but that if he still wants to marry her, she is willing.

No, that is cowardly; she must be honest with him. She is _more_ than willing; it would not be a chore, but something she could see bringing her true happiness. She has never wanted to be married, but in these past weeks as his fiancée, she has come to look forward to the prospect: the comfort and charm of Basilwether House and the London residence. Lady Tewkesbury, already a mother in all but name, truly and forever her family. And most of all, Tewky, always by her side, helping her with investigations, smiling at her across the breakfast table, giving her those kisses that increasingly make her pulse race and her whole body smolder with delight (his technique has absolutely improved since their first kiss). She is not the marrying kind; she knows this about herself. But still, she has become more attached to the idea of becoming Enola Linfield than she ever thought herself capable of.

But Tewky manages to avoid her for four whole days, despite her spending nearly every waking moment she isn’t working at the Linfield home. It’s the longest she’s gone without seeing him since their engagement began, and it is very much cutting up her peace. After two days, she gives up on catching him at home and sends him a note, suggesting they meet. He responds with a polite note apologizing that he is too busy just at this moment, but he will let her know just as soon as his schedule allows it. (She growls and throws his note in the fire.) She considers sneaking into his club, but while she can successfully impersonate a woman of any social standing and a working-class boy, she doubts her ability to pass for a gentleman.

Even Lady Tewkesbury has begun to worry and to doubt her son’s claims that he’s simply terribly busy with the bill; Enola can see it in the crease of her brow when she tells Enola, yet again, that he’s off with his fellow politicians. “Always that Viscount Davenport,” she grumbles. “A kind sort of man, but there are . . . rumors, about his gambling habits. I do not like the idea of him having any influence on William.”

Perhaps that’s why she buys the three of them tickets to the theatre, and informs Enola that she’s already extracted a promise from her son that he won’t let political matters prevent him from attending.

So Enola selects her best evening gown, and acquiesces gladly to Lady Tewkesbury’s suggestion that she dress at the Linfield home so that Blanchet can do her hair, and finds herself uncharacteristically nervous as she and Lady Tewkesbury wait in the foyer for the marquess to appear.

When he does, he is stunningly handsome in his evening wear; she’ll always prefer him in the light linen suits and duster coats he wears when he is puttering around the gardens at Basilwether House, but he certainly wears formalwear well. “Ladies,” he says with a smile that does not reach his eyes, “I apologize for my tardiness. Shall we be off?”

No special greeting for Enola; certainly no kiss. Before that awful argument at the ball, she’s not sure he ever greeted his fiancée without a kiss of some kind (whether it was on the hand, cheek, or mouth depended on their audience). And she is surprised at how much she misses it.

In the carriage, he hands his mother and fiancée in, as a gentleman should, and insists on taking the rear-facing seat and placing the two ladies in the front-facing one, as a gentleman should, and keeps his conversation to the weather and the state of the roads, as a gentleman should, and Enola is coming to learn that she hates the gentlemanly version of Lord Basilwether: not because he’s a bad sort, but because her Tewky is such a kinder and cleverer and funnier and more interesting person than this, and because she hates that he has retreated into formality with her.

He keeps the facade up at the theatre. Enola had been hoping to have a moment to talk to him, but they are never alone: in the hallways and stairways of the theatre before and after the show, they seem to run into a thousand people that the Linfields know, and each must be greeted and conversed with. And during the intermission, that triple-cursed Davenport comes to their box and begins talking about the bill—she doesn’t think Tewky planned that, but he doesn’t seem to be making any effort to send him off—and so it’s Davenport’s friend who has to do the polite thing and offer to go fetch some champagne for the ladies.

And things are no better during the show itself. Although Lady Tewkesbury has given them the seats behind her, so they can do any hand-holding or cuddling they want with relative privacy, Tewky sits up straight, hands in his lap, and focuses on the play. Enola remembers the musical evening they went to two weeks ago, where Tewky held her hand and whispered translations of the Italian arias into her ear (unnecessary, of course, as Enola speaks nearly fluent Italian, but she’d enjoyed having him so close and so had allowed him to do it). And she looks at the stiff, upright marquess sitting beside her now, and bites back a sigh.

If they were alone, she would force him to speak with her (they certainly wouldn’t be the only attendees talking instead of enjoying the play). But Lady Tewkesbury is so close; she would undoubtedly overhear, and Enola would be humiliated to have her learn the truth. At present, the lady is clearly aware something is wrong, but she undoubtedly assumes it’s just a garden-variety lovers' tiff; Enola would be humiliated for the lady to learn that she unintentionally led Tewky on and broke his heart.

So instead of having the conversation they so desperately need, Enola Holmes and her fiancé sit in tense silence in their theatre box. She dares a few glances at him. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees him dare a few glances at her. But they do not speak, and they do not touch.

. . . . . .

Enola is about to go mad with frustration and confusion. She decides she absolutely must talk to _someone,_ since Tewky will not talk to her, but her options are limited (that’s Enola Holmes all over: thousands of acquaintances, few close friends). For many problems, Lady Tewkesbury would be her first choice, but for obvious reasons, Enola cannot speak to her about this. Eudoria Holmes still disapproves of the marriage and would undoubtedly gloat over the engagement falling apart, and Mycroft and Sherlock would, for different reasons, be absolutely useless in this case.

That really only leaves one person. So, the day after the theatre and five days after the disastrous engagement ball, Enola makes her way to Edith Grayston’s tea shop.

Her old friend looks a little surprised—Enola’s not been to the dojo as often lately, having been so terribly busy with work and wedding planning—but smiles and says “Cup of gunpowder green?”: the usual code for going up to the dojo.

Enola shakes her head. “If I buy every pastry in the shop,” she says quite seriously, “can I have a half-hour of your time?”

Edith does not require her to buy every pastry in the shop for the privilege of speaking to her, but Enola does slip some money to Myrtle, the shop assistant, to apologize for leaving her short-handed for a while. They go to Edith’s private office, and the woman listens quite sympathetically while Enola pours out the whole story, from the proposal to last night’s outing.

There’s a long, heavy moment of silence when she’s done. “My goodness, Enola,” she says finally. “How do you work as a private detective for six years and still have so little understanding of the human heart?”

“I understand more than enough,” Enola says defensively. “But I find runaway children and kidnapping victims and lost jewels. I do not dabble in the world of romance. I am . . .” She looks away from Edith. “Not very good at it.”

“Oh, my girl,” Edith says kindly, “I shouldn’t scold. With your upbringing and your family and your line of work, I don’t suppose you’ve seen a great number of successful romantic relationships.”

“Almost none,” Enola confesses glumly.

“And to tell you the truth, there are people who would see no problem in the kind of marriage you proposed. There are people who are willing to marry for financial or political reasons, rather than love. There are people who will happily accept their spouse’s body, even knowing they don’t have their spouse’s heart.” Edith leans forward. “But your Lord Basilwether is not one of those people. You know him better than anyone. Do you really think he could be happy married to a woman who does not love him? Especially one that he does love so well?”

Enola shrugs uncomfortably. “I thought . . . he’d have me by his side, at least. And he knows I think the world of him.”

Edith thinks for a moment, then says, “Do something for me: imagine a world where your marquess never proposed. Imagine that instead you learned that in all the time you two had been friends, he had never sought you out for your own sake, that he never truly wanted to be your friend. He simply pitied you, knowing how few friends you had, and spent time with you out of charity. Or perhaps your brother Mycroft worried you were running wild, and asked Lord Basilwether to keep an eye on you, and that was the only reason he’d ever spent time with you. How would you feel?”

Enola thinks of how absolutely she has relied on his friendship all these years, the adventures they’ve had, the vulnerability she’s shown him at times—in a way she rarely allows herself to be vulnerable. She imagines finding out that Tewky had tolerated all of this out of pity or obligation. And she admits, “Humiliated. Hurt. Angry.”

“You see?” Edith asks, and Enola does see, and she sinks lower in her chair. “From Lord Basilwether’s point of view, this relationship with you is, I imagine, the most important thing in the world, and he’s just learned that you’re only in it out of a sense of obligation. Some people might tolerate such a relationship if it came with useful benefits, but you are not that type, and neither is your marquess.”

“But I do like him!” Enola insists. “Very much.”

“I know,” says Edith. “But this is far more than friendship. This is marriage—putting yourself and your happiness so much in another person’s hands. He has confessed to you time and time again that he loves you, and he has shown it in every way possible. He has made himself incredibly vulnerable around you. If all he gets in return is ‘I like him’ . . . can you see how that might not be enough?” 

Enola nods miserably. “So what do I do?”

Edith heaves a great sigh. “I’m quite fond of your marquess. He’s a friend to our cause, and very kind and generous . . . and quite possibly one of the few truly decent men in England. He deserves to know that the woman he is married to is with him because she loves him. And if you genuinely don’t think you can give that to him, you should set him free to find someone who can.”

Enola stares at the floor.

So she doesn’t see the smirk on Edith’s face, but she does hear it in her voice when she speaks. “But before you do that, give yourself some time to come to know your heart. I think you might be surprised at what you find there. I think you have been ignoring an obvious truth for a long time.”

Enola looks back up at her, confused.

Edith just smiles. “Your half-hour is up. Go talk to your marquess.”

. . . . . .


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update! I've been posting new chapters every other day, but the last chapter has now grown enough to split into two, and I don't want this story to keep dragging on and on, so I thought I'd just post this chapter early. Enjoy!

. . . . . .

Enola needs time to sort out Edith’s last statement. But she is certain of two things: she owes Tewky an apology for her part in the misunderstanding, especially given that last time they spoke of it, she defensively lashed out at him. And she needs to tell Tewky that, though their engagement has been an unusual one, the thought of it ending hurts her heart. She will go to his home without delay, she decides, and not rest until she’s seen him. This last week, any time he has avoided her, she has simply let him do it. That stops today.

But her task will apparently be easy, for when she steps out of her cab in front of the Linfield home, the marquess is just climbing into his fine coach with the Basilwether crest on the side.

“Tewky!” she calls, not caring if the whole street hears her.

He looks up at her, and for a moment he looks utterly lost, utterly uncertain of what to do next. So Enola takes advantage of his confusion and marches up to his coach.

“We need to talk.”

He blinks. “I’m afraid I’m going out. Meeting Davenport and some of the other backers of the bill for luncheon at our club. I’m already going to be late—”

“Then I’ll ride with you,” she informs him, and climbs into the vehicle without waiting for his response.

“Well?” she says when she is seated and he is still standing outside the coach, blinking in surprise. “Are you coming or shall I go to your club and tell Davenport you’ve forgotten how to get in a carriage?”

And after that, all Tewky can do is climb in with her.

It’s a short drive to his club, so Enola knows she must not delay. “I know you’re busy,” she begins as the coach rumbles into motion, but Tewky cuts her off with a shake of his head.

“No, you’re right,” he says. “I’ve been putting this conversation off too long.” He tries to smile at her, but there such pain behind it that Enola loses her words for a moment.

“I need to apologize,” he says, and now it’s Enola’s turn to interrupt.

“No, I need to apologize,” she insists. “For misunderstanding things so much. For not realizing how you must have felt—that you would have assumed . . .”

She trails off briefly, and Tewky takes advantage of the lull to speak up. “I appreciate you saying that,” he says sincerely. “And I’m sorry for assuming—for being so glad to have finally gotten what I wanted that I didn’t take the time to learn how you truly felt. I was trying not to ‘look a gift horse in the mouth,’ as the saying goes, but this was a situation where I  _ should  _ have done that.”

She nods in acknowledgment, pleased at how easily they’re conversing—until he opens his mouth again. “But that’s not what I meant to apologize for.”

“What, then?”

“For taking so long to have this conversation. For dragging this out.” He looks down at the toes of his highly polished boots for a long moment, while the streets of London rattle past the windows, and when he speaks again, his voice is tinged with self-deprecation. “I told myself I was just being cautious, taking the time to think through everything before I made a decision. But that’s not true.”

Enola blinks, not sure how to respond.

“I thought a great deal about what you said,” he goes on, looking back up at her. “If we decided to still get married, I’d be getting what I said I wanted, and you do care for me; we’ve always been good friends. And I thought maybe you were right; maybe I could let that be enough.”

A surge of hope washes through her, and her heart bobs on its rising tide.

He looks away from her, fixing his gaze out the window. “People have married with far less sentiment between them and made very happy and successful marriages of it,” he goes on, “and I thought perhaps we could be like that.”

She opens her mouth to inform him that they absolutely could, they could be wildly happy together, but Tewky doesn’t notice. “But in my heart I knew I was fooling myself. In my heart I knew what the right course of action was—knew it before you left the house that day. And that’s the real reason I’ve avoided you these past few days. Because I knew this conversation must be had, and I knew what the result would be, and I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I wanted . . .” His eyes flutter closed. “To pretend, a little while longer.”

The hope has entirely drained from her body, and her heart sinks like a stone. “Tewky,” she says, and then, a little desperately, “William. Nothing has to change.”

“I know that this is a sacrifice you were willing to make,” he says. “I imagine it’s one you are still willing to make.” He opens his eyes and looks right at her, and the tears she sees pooled along his lower lashes hit her like a blow to the gut. “But I won’t let you do that, Enola. Maybe I could find a way to be happy in a marriage like that, at least at first. But you would not be happy. And seeing you unhappy means I would be unhappy. We would both be trapped and miserable.”

“No, Tewky,” she says firmly. “We would be happy together. I would be happy with you, I know it.”

He gives her a teary smile. “Happy that you had done your duty, perhaps,” he says. “At least at first. But that would fade. We could have sixty years together, Enola. Sixty years for you to think about all you’d sacrificed for my sake, all the things you could have done if you hadn’t been tied down to me. You would come to resent me, and regret our marriage. You would be unhappy. And I would be miserable knowing I’d brought you such unhappiness, and miserable knowing you resented me.”

“That wouldn’t happen,” she objects, but he shakes his head.

“We would make each other miserable,” he insists, crying in earnest now. “You’re far smarter than I am; if you think about it, you’ll see I’m right.”

Before she can respond, the carriage slows to a stop; a glance out the window confirms they are at Tewky’s club. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’ll speak to my mother tomorrow,” he says as he dabs at his face. “She’ll know what to do: drop a few words in the right ears and we won’t have to make an official announcement.”

Enola’s head is whirling as she turns over this new perspective in her mind, but she finds her voice enough to say “Tewky, don’t.”

“I’ll make certain everyone knows it was my doing, calling the engagement off,” he says. “I don’t want this to damage your reputation.” He reaches for the door, but she reaches out and grabs his hand.

“You can’t go in there like this,” she says, grabbing wildly at any excuse she can think of to keep him in the coach. “It’s clear you’ve been crying.”

“There’s a room just off the entrance for tidying yourself up,” he assures her. He turns his hand over so he can grasp hers and give it a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you for worrying about me, Enola Holmes. And I meant what I said, the night I proposed: we will always be friends.”

Without waiting for a response, he climbs out of the vehicle. “Baker Street,” she hears him tell the coachman, and the coach rumbles into motion. She scrambles to the window to look back at him, but he’s already disappeared into his club.

. . . . . .

It is not a long ride from the club to 221 Baker Street—not nearly enough for Enola to put her scrambled wits in order. Part of her is devastated; she’s known how attached she’s become to the idea of marrying Tewky for a while now, but she didn’t understand the true extent of it until it was taken away from her. There’s a part of her that wants to cry as much as her fiancé (former fiancé, her mind taunts her) was crying just now.

But there’s another part of her, no less insistent, that has begun to wonder if he’s right. She’s convinced herself, over the course of this engagement, that she could be happy as the Marchioness of Basilwether. In the last week, once that future began to look uncertain, she began to be utterly convinced that to be William Linfield’s wife was to be as happy as she could be in this life. But maybe she’s wrong and he’s right. Maybe this is just her compulsion to vanquish villains and protect the innocent, spun out to its illogical conclusion; maybe he is just, as he said, her first client, a job she’s still trying to complete; maybe she only convinced herself she could be happy because she sets too much store by the idea of protecting the Marquess of Basilwether. And maybe she’s only been so utterly stuck on the idea of marrying him this last week because she has known it was about to be taken away from her; maybe she is a child with a toy that she doesn’t care for until someone else wants to play with it.

She has no idea. All she knows is that her whole head, her whole heart, are full of Tewky’s words: “We would make each other miserable.”

She reaches 221 Baker Street and stumbles up the stairs to 221B, eager to sink into her bed and be miserable for a few minutes before she sets her mind to sorting through her conflicting thoughts. So when she walks in the door and sees Eudoria Holmes taking her luncheon with Sherlock, she nearly turns around and leaves again.

Sherlock, clearly sees in her face that she is not keen to speak to their mother, and he raises his eyebrows:  _ what shall I do? _ She attempts to smile at him and only manages a thin, tired sort of grimace.

“Enola?” asks her mother. “What is it, dear?”

Were it just Sherlock in the room, she would not hesitate in explaining. He would lower his eyebrows, ask a few quick questions, teasingly warn her of Mycroft’s reaction, but then leave her be, trusting her to make her own decisions. But Eudoria thought the engagement a bad idea from the start; she might be very smug when she learns how right she was.

Still, they’re both sitting there staring at her—she must look more upset than she realizes—and she realizes she can’t keep this secret (or doesn’t want to keep this secret, perhaps) from her family.

So she swallows. “The engagement between myself and Lord Basilwether is at an end,” she says, taking refuge in formality.

Sherlock lowers his eyebrows as he processes this piece of information, and were Enola in a mood to laugh, she would have done so at how very predictable he can be at times. It’s her mother’s response that surprises her: her brow furrows as well, and her expression appears to be one of concern. “What happened?”

And none of this is her mother’s fault, but Enola feels exhausted and heartsore and unmoored and confused, and her response is less than charitable. “I’d’ve thought you’d be thrilled,” she says, a little sharply. “You were never happy about the engagement.”

It’s unfair of her, something she feels full force when her mother says gently, “I’m always unhappy when you’re unhappy, dearest.”

The brief burst of indignation drains out of Enola, leaving her feeling like a puppet with its strings cut. Without a word, she walks into the parlor and collapses on the sofa in a most unladylike manner, staring at the floor.

“What happened?” asks her mother soothingly, following to sit beside her. “What went wrong?”

“Me,” Enola blurts out. “I went wrong. Apparently I’m no more cut out for matrimony than the rest of the Holmes clan.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Sherlock and her mother exchange a quick glance, and then Sherlock leaves to give them privacy, not even bothering to come up with an excuse for his absence. Mother and daughter wait in silence a long while, and then Eudoria says, “I came here today to see you.”

Enola looks up.

“I’ve been waiting for two hours, actually. Though it was nice; I’ve not had much time to catch up with Sherlock of late. And your Mrs. Hudson provides an excellent luncheon.”

“But why did you come?”

“I read about you in the newspaper today.”

Enola’s brow furrows.

“A friend alerted me to it. It was one of those gossip rags, all about you and the marquess at the theatre last night, looking like you could barely stand to be anywhere near each other. Which they found surprising, as you’d been so ‘obviously infatuated with each other’ at your engagement ball.”

“You came here to warn me I’m being written about?”

“No.” Eudoria shakes her head. “I came here because I worried it was my fault.”

“How could it possibly be your fault?”

Her mother sighs, and then for a long moment there’s no sound in the room but the faint noise from Baker Street below them. “When you were born,” she said abruptly, “I promised myself I would say and do and teach you all the things I wish people had said and done and taught to me. I would not tie you down; I would open your mind; I would teach you that you could be anything you wanted to be.” She hesitates. “But over time, I forgot that my purpose was to teach you that you could be anything, and instead I tried to teach you to be me. I wanted you to see that being a woman did not have to mean conforming to society’s expectations, but instead I tried to make you conform to my expectations.”

Enola has had similar thoughts before, so she does not object or try to reassure her mother; she just listens quietly.

“And part of that was instilling in you in a distaste for men, for marriage, for motherhood. Despite the fact that without those three things, I wouldn’t have had you.” She smiles at her daughter, but then sighs. “The way I responded to your engagement has eaten at my mind all these weeks. And when I saw that article suggesting you were unhappy . . . I worried it had been my lifelong pontificating against marriage that had poisoned your engagement. So I came here to apologize.”

A weight that Enola hadn’t realized was on her shoulders suddenly lifts. She had not realized, until this moment, how unhappy she had been to know her mother was so upset with her. She reaches out a hand, and Eudoria promptly grasps it.

“I should have remembered, love,” says her mother, squeezing her hand, “that this cause of mine—rights for women, feminism—it’s not about forcing women to live a certain way. It’s about giving them  _ choices. _ I used to tell you so often that there were two paths you could take: yours, or the one others choose for you. I wanted you not to be forced to live with a man choosing your path, but there I was, falling into the trap of doing that very thing.” She gives Enola a little smile. “Whatever you choose to do, Enola—married or not, a mother or not, alone or not—I still believe you can do great things. And that those things will be your choice, not mine.”

And for the first time since this whole awful mess with Tewky began, Enola feels a tear course its way down her cheek.

“My dear!” Eudoria exclaims. “Here I have been rambling on and you are having a crisis. Are things truly over with Lord Basilwether?”

Enola sniffs and nods. Despite this incredible conversation, she doesn’t feel up to confessing all to her mother just yet, so she simply says, “I did not mean to, but I hurt him.”

Eudoria sees no problem in this. “So all married couples do, from time to time. Have you apologized?”

Enola nods. “And he has accepted my apology. But the nature of our misunderstanding . . . he has come to believe that he cannot make me happy. That if I marry him, in time I will come to resent him for preventing me from doing . . . whatever it is he supposes I will do without him. He has ended our engagement for my sake; he believes that he is doing me a kindness, and that I will see that someday.”

Eudoria listens, nodding thoughtfully. And then she says, “So what are you going to do?”

Enola blinks. “Do?”

“The Enola Holmes I know does not take things lying down. She fights for what matters to her. Even if it means sneaking out of finishing school in a trunk.”

That brings a smile to Enola’s face, albeit a small one.

“So what are you going to do to convince Lord Basilwether that you are miserable without him and still hope to marry him? Do not pretend that’s not true; you look perfectly miserable.”

“But—what if he’s right? What if I do come to resent him? What if I marry and find myself trapped and unhappy, as you did?”

Eudoria stiffens and turns away from Enola, staring out over the living room with unfocused eyes. After what feels like ages, she finally speaks. “Enola, I loved your father very much.”

Enola blinks.

Her mother glances quickly at her, a tight smile playing over her lips. “I don’t think I’ve ever made that clear to you, have I? But I would not have married him, had I not loved him. It was not his fault that I was unhappy in our marriage. He was a good and a loving man.” She wraps an arm around Enola’s shoulder and squeezes. “You take a great deal after him. He had the same loving heart that you have.”

“Then why . . . ?”

Her mother sighs. “He did his best to make me happy, but I was not suited to being the mistress of a country manor, playing hostess, ordering servants around. I wanted to travel, see the world, have adventures. I never told him any of this, though; I convinced myself he would not understand, that no matter how good he was, he was too much a product of his circumstances to be anything but what he was.” She sighs. “In the years since his passing, I have come to believe that I did him a great disservice. I have come to believe that he would have listened—he would have tried, if only I’d asked.”

There’s a long moment of quiet, and then Eudoria squeezes her shoulders again. “Your Lord Basilwether reminds me a great deal of your father; I see in him that same kindness and generosity that my Siger had. I believe that if there is any man in the world likely to make you happy—to allow you to continue to work, and to listen to your concerns and to be willing to compromise—it’s William Linfield.”

“And if I am wrong about being happy to be married to him?”

“Then you would talk to him,” says Eudoria. “You would not do as I did, and keep it bottled inside until it festered. You would work on your marriage. And you would compromise, too. When you love someone, you are willing to sacrifice for them. That is why the best marriages have true affection on both sides: then both parties are willing to compromise, and both sides benefit.”

Enola is quiet a long time. “What if I am not built for loving other people?” she says finally, quietly, afraid that saying it too loudly might make it true.

Her mother rubs her arm gently. “Do you remember, when you were young, you nearly died trying to save a sheep from a cliff?”

Surprised that her mother should mention an event that is so frequently on Enola’s mind, she nods.

“I told you that day that sometimes you have to let nature take its course, but you did not agree. You would have happily put your life in danger again, to save another creature in peril.”

“I remember that day,” Enola says softly.

“I have a great capacity for doing what must be done,” says Eudoria. “Not always a pleasant gift, but a useful one. But you, my dearest girl: you have a tremendous capacity for love.” She smiles. “You’re like your father that way. You’re so astonishingly clever that sometimes I forget about your incredible heart. But they’re both important parts of you.”

Enola embraces her mother tightly, feeling pleased that no matter what comes of her engagement, at least her relationship with her mother will come out stronger for all this.

. . . . . .

That peace sustains her for the rest of the visit, as Eudoria tells her about her latest work. It sustains her as she makes a trip to a bootmaker’s shop for a little surveillance, for her newest client. It sustains her as she returns home to write up her findings and sip tea and listen to an afternoon rainstorm patter against the windows.

And it is unceremoniously shattered in the late afternoon, when Lady Tewkesbury bursts into 221B, her eyes wild, flanked by two footmen. “Enola!” she exclaims with relief, striding toward her. “I need your help.”

Enola rises from her chair. “What is it?”

“William has been kidnapped.”

. . . . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such melodrama! Who wrote this silliness? Oh wait, it was me. :D Don't worry, I'll return Tewky in decent shape when I'm done putting him through all this angst.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm just going to do a chapter a day until we're done, since it's basically all written. So enjoy!

. . . . . .

There is one, long, terrible moment of silence while Enola stares at Lady Tewkesbury, her mind whirling. And then she jumps into action.

“Jameson!” she barks, forgetting for a moment that she is no longer the future Marchioness of Basilwether, at least as far as the marquess is concerned, and has no right to order around the servants.

One of the two footmen jumps to attention.

“Go downstairs to 221A,” she orders. “My brother Sherlock is speaking to our landlady. Tell him I require him upstairs at once.” Under normal circumstances, she would never share a case with Sherlock, but this is anything but a normal circumstance.

“At once,” echoes the footman with a quick bow, and leaves the room.

“Have you spoken to Scotland Yard?” she asks Lady Tewkesbury.

The lady shakes her head. “I suppose I should have—but I thought of you first. You’re a better detective than all of Scotland Yard put together, you know. And you  _ care _ about my William. I knew you would not rest until he was found. I cannot say that about Scotland Yard.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” Enola smiles. “All the same, I should like their manpower. Ross!”

The other footman jumps to attention.

“Go to Scotland Yard and tell Inspector Lestrade that he is needed at Baker Street at once with six or eight of his men; if he is inclined not to believe you, or to dawdle, give him the code phrase ‘May Beatrice Posy.’ If he is unavailable, Inspectors Baynes or Bradstreet will do. Let slip the Basilwether name if you must.”

“Yes ma’am.” Ross leaves.

Enola leads the shaking Lady Tewkesbury to the parlor; as they are seating themselves, Sherlock appears, his brow furrowed. Enola motions him into the room.

“Now,” she says when they are seated, “tell us everything.”

The facts are these: after his meeting at his club today, Tewky sent a note home to his mother that he and Davenport would be visiting a few ragged schools in the vicinity of Lincoln's Inn Fields as part of their research for the bill they're sponsoring. Twenty minutes ago, a note was found on the front porch.

_ Lady Tewkesbury, if you hope to see your son alive again, you shall need ten thousand pounds in bank notes. _

The rest of the note is wavy and illegible; the ink has run to the point that Enola cannot guess what it used to say. “What happened to the note?”

“The rain this afternoon,” says Lady Tewkesbury. “Whoever left this on our front steps did not account for the weather.” She wrings her hands. “What should we do? I can get the ten thousand pounds. But I have no idea what the kidnappers want me to do with it. What will they do to my son when I don't pay the ransom?”

Enola runs her hands over the note. “Low-quality paper,” she observes. “Poorly cut. No watermark. Not written by a wealthy kidnapper . . . or written by a wealthy kidnapper clever enough to cover their tracks.”

Sherlock holds his hand out for the note. “Handwriting is bold, broad, sloppy—not in a hasty way. My best guess: a man, without a great deal of education.” He sniffs the paper. “Smells like fish.” He glances at Lady Tewkesbury. “Does Basilwether have any enemies?”

“I can think of no one,” Lady Tewkesbury insists. “Even his political rivals tell me how much they respect him.”

“His political leanings have made him a target before,” Enola reminds them. “And he was working on that new bill.”

“But that’s about improved education for destitute children,” Lady Tewkesbury exclaims. “Who would be angry about that?”

Sherlock and Enola look at each other. “They’re demanding a ransom,” Sherlock points out. “Could be simply that the kidnappers knew he was wealthy and that his family would pay.”

“We know he intended to go to less savory areas of the city today,” Enola says. “He could’ve been seen by someone who realized what he was worth and followed him until he saw an opportunity.” She turns to Lady Tewkesbury. “What of Davenport?”

“I did not even think of him!” exclaims Lady Tewkesbury. “I assumed they had parted ways before William went missing.”

“Tell us about him,” Sherlock orders.

Lady Tewkesbury is no fool; she understands what information will be useful. “Late twenties; blonde hair; bachelor; no family left. Became a viscount when his father died a few years ago. Has a townhouse on Cavendish Square. Progressive voice in the House of Lords.” She hesitates. “He’s a very good-hearted sort. But there is a rumor around London that he is too fond of the gambling tables. The gossips say that he has depleted an alarming amount of the Davenport fortune.”

Sherlock and Enola glance at each other. “The sort of man who could attract attention from unsavory characters,” Enola says.

“Perhaps your marquess was not the target, but simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” Sherlock agrees. “Though we oughtn’t theorize too much before we have data. Otherwise one begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.”

“So what now?” asks Lady Tewkesbury.

“We should split up,” Sherlock says, looking at Enola, and she feels a rush of affection for her brother, for taking this so seriously.

“Agreed,” she says. “You to Davenport’s, me home with Lady Tewkesbury to see if any servants saw who brought the note by.” She would rather go to Davenport’s home herself—her gut tells her that will be the next major breakthrough in this case—but her familiarity with the Basilwether home and servants means she will be more valuable there.

Sherlock agrees. “Your task will likely take longer than mine. I will visit Davenport’s home, then come find you.”

Footsteps sound on the stairs. “Lestrade, just in time,” Sherlock says. “You’re with me.” He turns to Lady Tewkesbury. “We will find your son,” he assures her. “You’ve got the two best detectives in London looking for him.” He hesitates. “And Inspector Lestrade.”

Lestrade rolls his eyes. “Hilarious.”

. . . . . .

Enola and Lady Tewkesbury interview every servant in the Linfield home and finally discover a kitchen maid who happened to glimpse the messenger while returning from the market. All she can tell them, though, was that he was young—perhaps eleven or twelve—and raggedly dressed, and that he smelled of fish.

“Fish again,” Enola says. The rush of adrenaline and the steely resolve that powered her through the first hour of this case have begun to fade a little, and the worry and fear that she’s kept at bay are beginning to creep into the edges of her mind. She forces them back, reminding herself that she will be of no use to Tewky if she lets her worry overwhelm her.

Still, if something should happen to Tewky because no one shows up to pay his ransom . . . It doesn’t bear thinking of.

Sherlock arrives shortly after and tells them that Davenport has not been home either, though no kidnapping note has arrived—perhaps because he has no family to appeal to. After Lestrade had blustered about authority a bit, while Sherlock looked imposing and impressive, the butler had given in and admitted to his master’s gambling problem, and agreed to let them search Davenport’s private study. There they found a small notebook, where a carefully kept set of records showed him owing a truly astounding amount of money to a man named Marlowe.

“I spoke to a few of my Irregulars,” Sherlock says. “One has heard of a Marlowe operating out of Seven Dials.”

“Lumber Court Market!” Enola exclaims. “Where so much fish is sold!”

“Precisely,” says Sherlock. “And it is somewhat near to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where Basilwether was to visit today. So that is where you and Inspector Lestrade will go next, in case this Marlowe character snatched Davenport off the street to pay for his debt, and took Basilwether while he was at it. Lady Tewkesbury, Inspector Bradstreet will remain here with you in case the kidnapper reaches out to you again. And I will take a few men to go to their club and then to speak to the other men with whom they met today, in case Davenport and Basilwether mentioned which schools they were to visit today.”

Enola rises to go, but Lady Tewkesbury stops her long enough to give her a hug. “I know something is wrong between you and William,” she whispers to her. “But it can be set to rights, I know it. As long as you find him.”

Enola tightens her arms around her. “I will do everything in my power to bring him home.”

. . . . . .

Ninety minutes and some slinking about Seven Dials later, Enola and Lestrade finally have a lead. “Abandoned foundry on Cunningham Road,” she mutters to the inspector as she slips into the alley where he’s waiting. Adrenaline pulses through her at the prospect of finally being able to  _ do _ something, to be that much closer to—she hopes—bringing Tewky home, safe and sound. They’ve had no word from Lady Tewkesbury or from Sherlock, and worry has been slowly tightening its vice-like grip around her chest.

“Really?” Lestrade demands, looking at her tattered dress and dirty face. “They bought that?”

“I’ll have you know that I am excellent at undercover work,” she says, and puts on her most pitiful face and best working class accent. “Please, sir, me da sent me here to look for a man called Marlowe. He owes him a bit o’ money, see, only Da broke his leg working on the docks. I come to beg him—”

“I don’t need your whole sob story,” grumbles Lestrade, but deep down he’s impressed, she’s certain of it.

Lestrade, Enola, and the three policeman with them make their way to the address provided them by a sympathetic costermonger. The street is small and quiet, or at least what passes for quiet in this crowded, dirty area of the city, and Enola is glad that it is the height of summer and that the sun will not set for a few hours yet. Seven Dials, and the whole St. Giles neighborhood, is no longer quite the slum that it was in her parents’ day, but still, even with police with her, it is not the sort of place she would like to be after dark.

The foundry is fairly small, as these things go: not overly wide, and only two stories high. At one point it must have been a tidy brick edifice, but now it is dismal and filthy, many of the lower-story windows broken. There are little signs, though, that it’s not uninhabited: the newly replaced lock on a side door. The footprints in the dust inside. And most of all, the figures moving past a second-story window.

There are bars over the windows, but Enola gestures at a window where nearly all the glass is missing, along with one of the bars. It leaves a gap too small for a grown man, but for her . . . “I think I can fit through there,” she whispers.

“And do what, face Marlowe alone?” Lestrade hisses. “Even if he doesn’t have your fiancé, I imagine he won’t take kindly to your wandering into his lair.”

“There’s no one on the ground floor,” she whispers back, gesturing inside, where the wide-open space (all the equipment must have been cleared out when the foundry ceased operations) means that she can see all the way to the other side of the building. “I’ll just sneak in and unlock the door for you.”

“Wait for the policemen to finish checking the perimeter—”

Lestrade never gets to finish his sentence, however, for in the next moment, a gunshot rings out from the upper floor, piercing the bright morning air, and Enola feels the echo of it all the way to her bones.

For a long moment, the whole world seems to collapse down to that sound and to the feeling of the brick wall under her hand; her mind goes blank, fear driving every thought from her mind. She doesn’t know that shot was for Tewky; she doesn’t even know if Tewky’s in there. But she cannot bear waiting a moment longer to find out; she will surely run mad if she does not get into this building immediately.

In the next moment, she is scrambling through the window. She lands silently on the floor and listens: there are heavy footsteps and muffled voices on the second floor, in the northwest corner, where they saw the figures in the window and where the gunshot seemed to come from. Silently she pads to the door and is pleased that it can be unlocked from the inside. And the second she has unlocked it, she runs as fast as she dares and as quietly as possible to the staircase on the far side of the ground floor.

It is iron, and in excellent shape; it does not creak or groan as she sets her foot on it and begins to climb. Glancing back, she sees Lestrade cautiously easing the door open. She turns her focus back to her silent ascent.

When she nears the top, she drops down to crawl on her hands, keeping herself low, peeking her head up just enough to glance at the upper floor (fortunately for her, a pile of wooden crates near the top of the stairs give her a fair amount of cover).

Where the wooden crates sit is a small landing. Beyond it is a door, standing partway open, leading to what must have once been used as an office area, for there are several desks and chairs in the room inside. She sees a man with a shabby suit and a menacing air, leaning against a desk; he’s mostly turned away from the door, but instinct tells her it’s Marlowe. Two men in rougher clothing are visible as well: one boredly carving into the top of a desk with a knife, the other pacing.

She shifts a little to the side, and a man comes to view: twenties, blonde hair and a fine suit. It is Davenport—she remembers him from the theatre—and her heart leaps. He is tied to a chair, gagged and unconscious, and has clearly been knocked about a bit. But his chest is rising and falling; he is alive.

She shifts further, all the way to the edge of the staircase. Next to Davenport is another chair, knocked over, and next to it she can see just the legs of a man in a fine light gray suit, sprawled out on the ground.

Her heart stops.

Tewky was wearing a suit of the same color yesterday.

Tewky is sprawled out on the ground.

Tewky was taken hostage by these criminals, and there was a gunshot, and now he is motionless on the ground.

Enola is going to be sick.

It takes every bit of self-control she has not to burst into that room and run to Tewky’s side. He might not be dead yet; if the shot wasn’t fatal, he might yet live if they get him medical treatment quickly enough. But to run in there now would only get her killed as well. Oh,  _ where _ are Lestrade and the policemen? She ought to rush down to tell them to hurry, but for a long few moments, all she can do is stay on the stairs, staring with horror at Tewky’s inert form, praying with everything that is within her that whoever fired the gun is a bad shot.

What a fool she has been. What an unforgivably dense fool, what a stubborn, slow-witted  _ nincompoop _ she has been, to not realize, until it might be too late, that she is in love with Tewky. She, Enola Holmes, is absolutely and irrevocably in love with Lord William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether, Viscount Tewkesbury, and perhaps always has been. Of course she is! How could she not be in love with the most ridiculous and wonderful man in the world? That is why she could not bear to see him marry someone who made him unhappy; that is why she looks forward to his embraces and kisses; that is why she became so very attached to the thought of becoming his wife and why she was so heartbroken when he ended the engagement!

She loves him, but in her blindness she let him slip away, and now he might be dead. She was engaged to the man she loves, but she was too foolish to realize it, and now she must pay for her folly as for a crime.

Enola brings a hand to her mouth and forces herself not to cry.

. . . . . .


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys! This is finally it! Thank you so much for reading and commenting and putting up with all the angst and the cliffhangers. I hope this final chapter lives up to expectations. :)

. . . . . .

After several long, terrible moments, Enola manages to force her feet to move, and creeps back down the stairs. Lestrade and the policemen wait at the bottom, and she gestures and mouths to communicate: “They’re here. With Marlowe and two men.”

Lestrade and the policemen communicate with a few gestures of their own. Enola does not know what their plan is, but they gesture for her to hide herself behind a large wooden crate, and secrete themselves in various spots. Then Lestrade creeps to a nearby door, eases it open, then loudly slams it closed.

The muffled voices upstairs exclaim, and a few moments later one of the goons—the pacing one—comes slowly down the stairs, expression wary, gun at the ready. He does not hear Lestrade creeping up behind him, so the inspector has no problem striking him in the back of the head; a policeman darts forward and catches him before he falls, then drags him into a corner and ties his hands behind him and around a pipe.

Then they return to their hiding places and wait.

It doesn’t take long for Marlowe and the other man to grow impatient and come down the stairs as well, and it doesn’t take long for Scotland Yard to subdue them in the same way: sneak, strike.

Enola does not wait to find out what they do with their prisoners; she is racing up the stairs as though she has wings on her feet and throwing herself into the room where Tewky lies.

It is blessedly empty of any other of Marlowe’s men—she’s not stupid, even in her grief, and she does check—so she is safe to fall to her knees at Tewky’s side, her heart in her throat and tears in her eyes.

(It occurs to her, in the tiny sliver of her brain that’s free to process such things, that this is not the first time she and Tewky have been in this particular situation.)

“Tewky,” she gasps as her knees hit the ground. “William. Can you hear me?”

She can see no blood around him, and she feels her heart, cold and dead these last few minutes, roar back to life. Does she dare to hope? Trembling hands check the inert body for wounds; finding none, save a few cuts and bruises consistent with a beating, she throws herself forward to lean close to his face and check for breath . . .

Only to burst into tears when she finds it. “Tewky,” she gasps, cupping his face with her hands. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Tewky stirs, then winces, and then his eyes slowly open. “Enola?” he asks, a little vaguely, and struggles to push himself up off the floor. “What are—” Then he glances around. His gaze falls on Davenport, and on the chair that he must have been tied to for at least part of his ordeal. And then he turns back to Enola with a wry little smile. “Why am I not surprised it’s you who found me?”

Enola lets out a tear-choked laugh, then throws her arms around his neck, knocking him back to the ground. “Do you know that this is the second time we have been in this situation? You on the ground, me convinced you have been shot?”

“A pattern of behavior we probably ought to break,” he murmurs.

“What saved you this time? More armor?”

She feels Tewky shake his head, feels his hands tentatively pat her back. “They never shot me. I tried to make a run for it, and they were rather rough when they stopped me. I think the bigger man hit me. That’s the last thing I remember.”

The gunshot must have been something else, then; Enola pushes herself into a sitting position, and then, glancing around, sees the bottom half of a bottle sitting on a table some distance away, with a bullet hole in the wall behind it. And she laughs and laughs, nearly wild with relief. “Target practice. They must have been bored. That’s the gunshot I heard.”

Tewky again tries to push himself into a sitting position, and Enola helps him until he is steady. “Are your injuries serious?” she asks, fingers ghosting over the cuts and bruises on his face.

He shakes his head. “But how did this happen? How did you get involved in all this?”

“Your mother came to me, of course. She thought I was the best person to take on this case.”

Lestrade comes in then. “Basilwether’s all right,” she calls to him. “Will you see to Davenport?”

The inspector obeys, and Enola turns back to Tewky to see him looking utterly baffled. “I—you—thank you, Enola. But I have to admit I thought—I would have assumed that you’d rather—have someone else take care of rescuing me.”

“You refer, I assume, to the termination of our engagement?” Enola asks briskly, climbing to her feet and reaching out a hand to help him up as well.

Tewky nods and takes her hand to rise, not quite able to meet her eyes. She is pleased to see that, though clearly sore, he is steady on his feet.  


“Yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” She grabs his sleeve and pulls him to the window, away from Lestrade’s listening ears. “How are you feeling?” She grabs hold of his chin and turns his face this way and that, examining him in the sunlight from outside. “Coherent? Do you have any mental fuzziness?”

Tewky blinks. “No, just bruised. And hungry.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“June 20, 1890.”

“Good,” she says. “I want to be certain you understand what I’m about to say to you.”

Tewky stares at her. “All right?”

“I would like to tell your Lordship—” She is nervous, and trying to lighten the mood— “that I am not at all satisfied with how our last conversation went.”

Shame and sorrow fill his face, and he looks down. “Look, Enola—”

“And I think you oughtn’t make a decision until you have all the facts,” she goes on.

He looks up now, blinking. “I am missing some of the facts?” he asks.

“Yes, dreadfully negligent of you. Although to be fair, this particular fact did not come to light until five minutes ago, at which point you were on the ground unconscious.”

Tewky stares at her. “What fact is this?”

For a moment she worries she will not be physically able to say the words. She has never said this to anyone but her mother, and she has never had reason to say it to a man. But all her future happiness depends on her willingness to make herself vulnerable before this man, right now.

Fortunately for her, it’s Tewky; he makes being vulnerable easy.

She takes a deep breath, then says simply, “I love you.”

He blinks.

“I know I am rather like a character in a silly melodrama,” she goes on, feeling far more at ease now that she has gotten the words out, “not understanding my feelings until you were taken from me. Quite a cliche, and one that may not inspire confidence in the steadiness of my love, if it takes a crisis to bring it out.”

He blinks a few times more.

“But allow me to reassure you. I . . . I believe I have always loved you. I had just become so accustomed to the notion that I did not care to marry that it did not occur to me that the intense connection I felt to you was love. But these last weeks, planning our future together, spending so much time together, have been some of the happiest of my life. And these last few days, knowing that I had hurt you and that you would likely end our engagement over it, have been some of the worst. But it was not until I thought you were dead, just now, that I realized why I had been feeling this way.”

There’s a hint of hope dawning in his eyes, and it reminds her of the morning when she swept into his sitting room and informed him that she would like to marry him after all, if the offer still stood. “So what are you saying?” he asks, and his voice is not quite steady.

“I am  _ proposing,”  _ she says quite deliberately, “that you do not tell your mother to drop a few words in the right ears. I am proposing that you and I wed and become the happiest couple in all of England.”

“But—” He sounds a little lost. “But—”

“Or if you need time, I am willing to wait,” says Enola. “But I warn you, I would be a very persistent suitor; I would write you love letters at least twice a day, and send you flowers constantly, although you know that arranging flowers has never been one of my core strengths, so you might not be pleased with the result. And I would enlist your mother’s help; she is rather keen to see us wed, and she would be an invaluable ally in my suit. I believe you would not be able to resist my charms for long.”

Tewky stares at her. And then he laughs softly, and the sound is tear-choked. “Enola.”

Without waiting for further invitation, she steps forward to wind her arms around his waist and bury her face in his shoulder. He wraps her in a tight embrace, and she sighs in relief; she has missed the feeling of being in his arms terribly.

This is near perfection: standing in Tewky’s embrace, his heartbeat against her cheek reminding her that he is not dead, that she did not arrive too late, and that they have the rest of their lives stretching out in front of them.

“Enola,” Tewky whispers after a few long moments, “I want nothing more than to marry you. If your offer still stands, my answer is yes.”

There is only one thing that could convince Enola to lift her cheek from Tewky’s shoulder: the prospect of leaning back, cupping his face with her hands, and going up on her toes to kiss him. Now  _ this _ is perfection. And Enola learns something very important: being kissed by Tewky was quite pleasant, especially as time went on and he got better at it. But her kissing Tewky and him kissing back—having both parties in the kiss be willing and eager participants—that’s a different situation altogether. And quite a delightful one.

When they finally separate, Tewky is crying, and she laughs as she wipes away his tears with the handkerchief she’s pulled from his pocket. “You’re going to cry at our wedding, aren’t you?”

He nods fervently.

“Good,” she says firmly. “It will lend the proceedings an air of dignity.”

Tewky laughs and pulls her into another embrace—only to be interrupted by a call from Lestrade. “Are you two done being a pair of silly besotted lovebirds? We are still in the middle of an investigation, you know.”

Enola responds in a very reasonable tone: “Who says I can’t investigate and be a silly besotted lovebird at the same time?”

Tewky grins at her. She grins back. And then she is kissing him again.

“Unbelievable,” grumbles Lestrade.

. . . . . .

There is much to be done. The policemen take Marlowe and his two confederates into custody, and Lestrade takes statements from the two kidnappees, Enola clinging to Tewky’s hand all the while because just at the moment she can’t bear the thought of not touching him. (Amazing what a different experience it is—his skin against hers, for neither is wearing gloves—now that she has admitted to herself what he means to her.) She learns that she and Sherlock were on the right track in their conjectures: Davenport owed Marlowe a great deal of money, but could not pay it back without selling off furnishings and artwork from his home and thereby letting it become publicly known that he was in trouble. “You know our political opponents would have seized on it as a way to discredit everything I’ve worked for, all our reforms,” he says desperately to Tewky.

“Just wait until they hear you’ve been kidnapped to pay your debts,” mutters Enola.

Marlowe happened to be in the area of one of the ragged schools Davenport and Tewky visited; seeing the man who had owed him an absurd amount of money for an absurd amount of time, he decided to do something to finally get paid back. He and his men laid in wait until the two gentlemen left the school and foolishly entered a quiet, blind alley, and then they struck; they seized Tewky as well (thinking he could be used as a bargaining chip to get Davenport to pay) and hid the restrained men in a wagon to transport them to this foundry. But when Marlowe realized that Davenport had no family to pay his ransom, but the Marquess of Basilwether did, he changed his plan.

“It’s all my fault,” Davenport says miserably. “They didn’t even know who Basilwether was until I blurted his name out; he’d done a bang-up job resisting their efforts to get it out of him up until then.”

Enola just thinks that Lady Tewkesbury was right: hanging around Viscount Davenport turned out to be a bad idea for Tewky.

Messages have already been sent to Sherlock and Lady Tewkesbury, but it’s agreed that they ought to get home and put the lady’s mind at ease. So the lovebirds return to the Linfield home—Enola still unwilling to relinquish Tewky’s hand—and after Lady Tewkesbury has embraced them both and cried, and Tewky has cried, and Enola has cried a little, and they have told the lady the whole story, Enola surprises them both by asking whether they can move the wedding date up.

“There’s no reason to wait,” she says. “We’re of age; we’re not waiting for financial stability or for a home to become available. And I want to marry Tewky as soon as possible.”

Tewky beams at her, bright as sunlight. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

Lady Tewkesbury is a little startled, having assumed she had a few months yet to finish planning the wedding, but she is so pleased to have her son home safe, and so pleased to see Tewky and Enola reconciled (indeed, they appear closer now than she has ever seen them before), that she agrees.

. . . . . .

It takes all of Lady Tewkesbury’s considerable planning and organizational skills, but she manages to move the wedding date up to just three weeks hence.

“For you two, anything,” she says when Enola thanks her for it one day. She hesitates. “I always wished to have a daughter,” she confesses. “But when one never came, I knew that whoever William married would be the nearest I’d get. I never dreamed that my daughter-in-law would be as brilliant or singular as you . . . so I can’t tell you how pleased I am to have had my expectations so exceeded.”

And Enola counts herself blessed to have two mothers: one brilliant and fearless, one steadfast and loyal, and both perfectly loving.

Sherlock is amused when he hears about Enola and Tewky moving up their wedding date, and makes a clever remark about kidnapping being an excellent way for couples to reconcile. But his smile grows warmer when he confesses, “I am pleased you have Basilwether. I . . . love you, and I want for you to be happy, though it took sixteen years of your life for me to realize that and then to do something about it. And he makes you very happy.”

Enola grows a little misty-eyed at that, and Sherlock, perhaps sensing that she is considering embracing him, and feeling keen to avoid it, adds in a much more jovial tone, “But I do hope you keep up your detective work; the United Kingdom would be poorer for losing your brilliant mind.”

“I have every intention of doing so,” Enola says. “Although Tewky and I mean to delegate as little of our child-rearing to servants as possible, so I may occasionally have to press Mycroft into services as a childminder.”

“Nonsense,” says Sherlock. “Bring your children along on investigations. I’ve already begun planning how I am going to introduce my nieces and nephews to the art of deductive reasoning.”

“Tewky may object,” Enola laughs. “But perhaps if we started them on something not too alarming, like a burglary . . .”

“Of course I meant starting with a burglary,” he says. “Did you think I meant to take little children to investigate a murder? I’m not an idiot, Enola. I’ll wait until they’re at least twelve for that.”

Enola points a stern finger at him. “Make it eighteen.”

Eudoria is pleased to hear of the reconciliation as well, and reiterates to Enola that she means to respect whatever choices she makes. She, like Sherlock, has plans for what she will teach Enola and Tewky’s future children.

“That is all very well,” Enola says, “but I have already told Edith that I will be bringing them here for jiu-jitsu when we are in London.”

She grins up at Edith, currently refilling the Holmes women’s tea cups, and Edith smiles back. “Any child of Enola Holmes will always be welcome here. Any child of Lord Basilwether too, come to think of it. How convenient that you two decided to marry.”

“Fine,” says Eudoria, “but ciphers and fencing are mine.”

“All right, you may teach them ciphers and fencing,” Enola laughs. “You know, with Tewky’s side of the family teaching them dancing and statesmanship and botany, and my side of the family teaching them . . . less decorous skills, my children are going to be fiercely talented and very well-rounded creatures.”

“Any child of yours is destined to be extraordinary, Enola,” says Eudoria with a smile, and Edith agrees.

. . . . . .

“And Mycroft?”

“He does not know that our engagement ended for an afternoon,” says Enola, “and he never will. Just imagine how he would scold and judge! He is quite depending on this marriage to lend me an air of respectability and to give him a stronger connection to the nobility. By the way, if he ever attempts to use our connection to persuade or influence you in any way, I want you to promise to send him packing.”

“Of course I won’t listen to Mycroft,” Tewky laughs. “I’m not a complete idiot, you know.”

It is the evening before their wedding, and they are sitting in the front parlor of the Linfield’s London home—a home that will be hers as well, in less than twenty-four hours. For the moment they are alone; Lady Tewkesbury is in the kitchen, going over the menu for tomorrow one last time with the cook. (That Enola and Tewky spend so much time together unchaperoned has been a source of a great deal of consternation for Mycroft since their engagement began, which seems silly to Enola; they have worked a dozen cases undercover, together and alone and in disguise all over London, for the last five years, and they haven’t done anything too scandalous yet.)

She’s leaning against him, head on his shoulder, hand entwined with his, while they joke about Mycroft. “Yes, I suppose I must admit,” she says, “despite everything I’ve said to the contrary, I have come to realize that you are not completely useless.”

“High praise indeed!” Tewky laughs.

She loves Tewky’s laugh; she loves that she can prompt it in him so easily. And the rush of affection that overcomes her causes her to lift her head from his shoulder long enough to lean in and press her lips to his cheek.

Tewky promptly becomes shy and bashful; she finds it terribly amusing that after months of being engaged—the last three weeks of which have been spent with her showing him as much physical affection as propriety allows (plus a bit more)—he is still surprised and flustered and pleased when she kisses him. His free hand moves to cover their joined hands, and he tips his head against hers, and then he laughs a little.

“Now that I know how demonstrative you are when you are in love, it astonishes me that I ever thought your behavior in April and May could be indicative of any kind of deeper feeling,” he observes. “To think I saw you politely tolerating my kisses and somehow mistook it for genuine feeling—”

“I did have genuine feelings for you then,” Enola objects. “I just refused to knowledge them. Besides, I only ‘politely tolerated’ your kisses at first. Before long I had come to enjoy them very much.”

“In that case,” he laughs, “perhaps I should be astonished that you could come to enjoy kissing me so much and yet somehow mistake it for mere friendship.”

“Yes, that was not my finest moment,” she agrees. “I suppose I assumed it was simply the act of kissing—the mechanical action itself—that was pleasurable. For, to be fair, that is a large part of kissing’s appeal.”

“How very romantic you are, Miss Holmes,” he says drily. “‘The mechanical action of kissing.’ You should be a poet.”

“If you wanted romance and poetry, you should have married someone else,” she retorts.

“No, thank you,” he immediately responds, and puts his arm around her shoulders to draw her close. “It’s you for me, dearest, and no one else could possibly make me as happy.”

Enola curls into his embrace, and wonders at how sentiments that once seemed so silly suddenly sound like the most beautiful poetry, and how touches that she once ignored suddenly give her the sort of rush she gets when she solves a case. It’s love that makes the difference, and in that moment, she is full to bursting with love for this sweet young lord next to her, and she needs to let it out somehow—needs to be sure he knows that he is everything in the world to her.

“You buy a meat pie from the little girl on the corner of James Street every time you pass,” she blurts out, “and give it to the beggar on the corner of Barrett Street.”

There’s a moment of surprised silence. “What?”

Enola untangles herself from Tewky’s embrace and sits back so she can look him in the eye. “You vote for legislation that helps the poor, even if it means less gold in your coffers.”

He blinks, his face a perfect picture of confusion.

“Your grandmother tried to kill you, and yet you urged the court to show clemency, and paid for her to live out her last few years in relative comfort under house arrest. You know the scientific name of every plant that grows in the entire kingdom, and you don’t let anyone make you feel ashamed for having an unusual hobby. You’re not threatened by the fact that I could beat you in a fight with ease. You know every servant in your home by name, and none of them ever quit because you’re the most generous master in England. You come to every feminist rally my mother holds. You’re open and honest about your feelings in a way I’ve never managed to be. You help me with cases without ever receiving payment or recognition, simply because you want to help people in distress. And five years ago, when my mother had vanished and my brothers had abandoned me at a finishing school, you smuggled yourself into the building in a wicker trunk to help me escape, and I don't know that I ever told you how much it meant to me to have an ally when it felt like the whole world was against me.”

Tewky looks touched but still a little confused. “What are you . . .”

She smiles. “One month ago, you told me why you love me, and asked me to return the favor. It’s just occurred to me that I never did give you a satisfactory response.”

Tewky stares at her as his eyes grow bright, and then he blinks and a tear tumbles down his cheek. Enola smiles fondly as she pulls his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the tear away.

“Enola,” he laughs, his voice choked with tears, and he wipes at his face with his hand, and then he pulls her into his arms. “I love you too,” he says, and kisses her thoroughly, and she’s more than happy to reciprocate.

. . . . . .

And so Lord William Linfield, Marquess of Basilwether and Viscount Tewkesbury, marries Miss Enola Holmes, private detective, on a bright July day when she has just turned twenty-two and he is nearly twenty-three.

Some people in attendance wonder why one of the most eligible bachelors in England is marrying someone who brings no fortune or social standing to the marriage. Others wonder why London’s own lady detective is giving up her hard-won independence to bind herself to a man.

But they only have to catch a glimpse of the marquess and marchioness as they leave the church hand in hand—to see the expressions of adoration on their faces when they look at each other—to understand. 

. . . . . .

fin


End file.
